Free The One in My Heart by Sherry Thomas Page B

shove your tongue down the throat of some other man right in front of him?”
    “No, no hookups for me.”
    “There goes my hope one of us would do it with a random stranger and live to tell the tale,” said Carolyn.
    Someday, when I didn’t feel anything anymore about my own random stranger, I might give them the story. But as movie Aragorn would say, It is not this day .
    So I raised my glass. “Here’s to a year of record-breaking sex. May all our vaginas be begging for an extended leave at the end of it.”
    “Hear, hear,” said Carolyn.
    The rest of lunch was the usual good time punctuated by laments that we didn’t see one another more often, what with everyone being so busy. As we were settling the checks, Daff touched on the Annual Boyfriend Roundup, which took place every February after Valentine’s Day. The event was started to give us a chance to introduce significant others to the group, but somehow nobody was ever in a relationship in February, so now it was just an excuse to dress up, go out, and enjoy ourselves.
    “Who’s bringing a boyfriend?” Daff asked.
    As was our tradition, we all raised our hands.
    “Good!” said Daff. “The liars’ brigade is all here. Now go forth and wrangle some penises.”
    AFTER LUNCH I PAID A visit to Pater’s grave.
    He had died nine years ago this day, from a car accident that killed his third wife instantly. He’d lingered for a few hours at the hospital, long enough for me to sit by his bedside, his hand in mine, and live out our alternate history any number of times.
    He’d remarried the year before, to a woman with whom he bickered constantly. And every other week they’d have a major fight. I couldn’t be sure, since I hadn’t been there, but I suspected that when the accident happened, they’d been in the middle of another one of their all-consuming quarrels.
    When he’d opened his eyes in the hospital, he’d whispered my name. Then he’d asked, “How’s Zelda?”
    Pater was the kind of man whose negativity could drive a saint to Hulk out. Yet in his own way, he’d adored Zelda—had given her the house in the divorce because he’d worried about there being too many abrupt changes in her life. Losing her had been a heavy blow to him. And the new marriage hadn’t been so much a rebound as a crutch—better to hate the one he was with than to be entirely alone.
    “Zelda’s fine,” I told him, “in England visiting her cousins.”
    “Those damn cousins,” he’d answered, wheezing. “They hated me—but at least they love her.”
    He’d fallen unconscious again after that. I stroked his fingers and imagined a very different January, starting with that long-ago night in Paris. In this alternate universe Zelda never got sick and she never left Pater. He would still be holding forth before dinner every night, a glass of vermouth in hand. And he would most certainly not be dying before me because the new wife with whom he couldn’t get along had decided to drive after a few drinks too many.
    His last words to me had been, “Make sure you don’t settle for social-climbing district attorneys.”
    I kissed the bouquet in my hand and laid it on his grave, along with a note.
    I miss you, Pater. And I haven’t married a social-climbing district attorney—yet. Love, Eva.
    CHARLOTTE AND SAM MARRIED AT City Hall, with only their parents in attendance. The evening reception was at the Mandarin Oriental on Columbus Circle. Bennett met me in the lobby of the hotel.
    “The bride is going to kill you, Professor, for looking so pretty.”
    I looked decent. But Bennett…
    Pater had been a clotheshorse with a closet full of Armani suits. He loved to expound on the intricacies of a good suit. In fact, just before his final admonition to me about not marrying social-climbing DAs, he’d said, Never tolerate a man in an ill-fitting suit.
    He wouldn’t have had to worry about that with Bennett. As a rule, men’s clothes that weren’t plaids or denim